


The Slap

by ColdColdHeart



Series: The Key to Oslov [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, Besha Somehow Gives Good Advice, Class Differences, Dystopia, Emotional Porn, Face Slapping, Forced Orgasm, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Forced Prostitution, Mildly Dubious Consent, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Original Slash, Politics, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prostitution, Science Fiction, Sex for Favors, Whump, mentions of physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-09-01 12:00:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16764739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdColdHeart/pseuds/ColdColdHeart
Summary: Tilrey and Gersha are in a much better place now, but they’re still working out the kinks in their relationship—like the fact that Tilrey sometimes craves a hard slap. Meanwhile, there’s an important vote coming up.This takes place about eight months after the epilogue toA Serviceable Boy. It’s not heavy on the actual D/s, but there’s discussion of it. Also, Oslov education policy, an earnest relationship talk, more sex than is ever supposed to happen in a Government Sector office, and a fluffy-ish ending.This story establishes that while Gersha is pretty much monogamous, Tilrey is not. That doesn't stop him from always coming back to the one he loves.





	1. Chapter 1

Until he got down on his knees to give his secretary a blow job, Gersha Gádden had never realized how badly his office in the Sector needed a softer carpet.

They were in Gersha’s inner office, not the antechamber where Tilrey had his desk, and the door was closed and locked. But Gersha couldn’t get over the thrilling, terrifying awareness that his colleagues in the Council were just down the hall and might come knocking at any moment. This was the first time he’d even dared initiate sex during work hours.

And he wasn’t a bit sorry, he decided, as Tilrey’s fingers threaded themselves tighter in his hair. The boy gasped and arched backward, his weight making Gersha’s desk chair creak, as Gersha gripped the base of his cock and slid the whole shaft into his throat.

For a long time he’d held back from this, wary of his gag reflex, but the sounds Tilrey made when he was taken deep were irresistible. Gersha couldn’t get enough of the low, urgent moans; the whimpers; the hands tangling frantically in his hair; sometimes even the whispered curses in a startling Skeinsha accent. He knew too well how Tilrey sounded when he was only pretending to be aroused. This was different.

He withdrew to run his tongue around the head of the boy’s cock and was rewarded with the musky, salty taste of spunk—a wild taste, an outdoor taste. Once when they were together in the Southern Range, Tilrey had peeled off a piece of tree bark, revealing the pale underside, and said, “Smell that, remind you of anything, Fir?” And sure enough, the scent of that tree’s flowing sap was spring and life and—well, it was like this taste.

To think he’d once disparaged this as unhygienic.

He swallowed and shaped his lips to the boy’s thick shaft, sliding it back and forth deeper each time, caressing it with his tongue. Tilrey’s fingers knotted, making the roots of Gersha’s hair smart, as the boy gasped and whispered hoarsely, “Oh green hells, love. I think I need—I think it’s time.”

With the hand not clutching the boy’s cock, Gersha reached up blindly, and Tilrey’s large, warm hand grasped his. Without pausing in his rhythm, he pressed his thumb to Tilrey’s palm and squeezed.

This was the signal they’d worked out, a way for Gersha to say, “Come for me now” while keeping his mouth better occupied. He hoped one day they’d be able to undo that damned Linnett’s conditioning altogether, but for now Tilrey still couldn’t attain release without permission.

As Tilrey gasped again, and his body jerked the chair backward on its casters, and warm semen gushed into Gersha’s throat, Gersha admitted to himself he didn’t hate giving that signal. He liked exercising that one piece of control and then unleashing the uncontrollable, swallowing and swallowing to get every drop. He liked cleaning the boy’s cock as thoroughly and conscientiously as a well-trained brothel worker, and gently laving the ripe weight of the balls with his tongue before tucking Tilrey back into his trousers. He liked the way the boy’s body slumped, spent, as if he were a child collapsed after a hard day of play.

The whole process made Gersha’s own cock swell under the skirt of his tunic. As he sat back on his haunches, dimly registering the ache of his martyred knees, he no longer felt like a Councillor, or even an Upstart. He felt raw and used and using, and he wanted more. He did his best to ignore the clock on the wall above his desk, which was trying to ruin the moment with its stentorian ticking.

Tilrey sat upright by inches. Even in the paltry midwinter light that trickled through the blinds, Gersha could see his cheeks were flushed, his eyelids heavy.

“Good lord, Fir,” he said a little breathlessly. “How am I going to feel if you get better at that than I am? I have a reputation to maintain.”

Gersha chuckled and rose from the floor, the protests of his joints reminding him he was way too close to forty. “Let’s keep it just between us.”

He caught hold of Tilrey’s hand, meaning to bring it to his own cock, which was straining against his trousers. But the boy had gone rigid, his eyes on that damned ticking clock face.

And then he was on his feet, reaching out to tip Gersha’s face up and give him a kiss. “The Ed Committee meeting’s in five minutes, Fir.”

“Ed Committee?” Gersha shivered pleasantly at the burn of stubble on his skin, struggling to transfer his thoughts to bureaucracy. “I’m not on that one.”

Tilrey’s fingers played with his earlobe. “I know, love, but you should be observing it—or rather, I should be observing it for you. There’s a crucial bill approaching a vote. I attended the last two meetings as your proxy; I’ll show you the notes, if you like.”

In his tenure as Gersha’s secretary, Tilrey had developed a habit of sitting in on the sorts of meetings Gersha ought to attend but found mind-numbingly dull. Gersha was enormously grateful, and he always tried to peruse the notes Tilrey produced, but right now he couldn’t hide his disappointment. “Why’s this bill so crucial?”

“It involves Notification practices, Fir.” Tilrey flicked an errant curl out of Gersha’s eyes. “Councillor Lunkoldd is leading the latest effort to remove nepotism and legacy influence from the process.”

That meant giving exceptional Laborer kids a better chance to Raise themselves to Upstart status—an effort Gersha whole-heartedly supported, though he was careful about expressing that support around Majority Leader Verán.

“Councillor Lunkoldd?” he said, trying to feel proud of his bright, proactive secretary rather than miffed that they weren’t continuing their extracurricular activities. “I like her, but she’s very low-named—there are Laborers on her dad’s side, I think. She won’t get anywhere with a progressive bill.”

“I know, Fir.” Tilrey straightened his jerkin, moved the desk chair briskly back to its place, and went to open the blinds on a soupy, charcoal-gray afternoon. “But she’s framed the bill very artfully with an eye to bipartisan support. It’s chock full of quotes from Whyberg.”

“You’ve _read_ the bill?” Gersha sat down at the console, trying to get enthused about the prospect of returning to a tricky encrypting job he was doing for Int/Sec. “The entire thing?”

“I like reading legislation almost as much as you despise it.”

“I know, I know. You’re quite mad.” He couldn’t resist turning from his desk once more, and was rewarded with a blinding grin as Tilrey opened the door to the antechamber.

“I know, love. That’s why we’re so well suited. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten it’s a free-night. See you soon.”

***

The low lighting in the back of the amphitheater, combined with the dreary afternoon, was putting Tilrey to sleep. He blinked hard and examined his notepad, trying to focus on the droning voice of the education expert on the dais who was taking questions from Lunkoldd and the other committee members.

He couldn’t blame Gersha for finding these meetings boring. But here in these dim, stuffy rooms, amid these droning voices, all the decisions that mattered were made.

For an eighteen-year-old, Notification could mean the difference between life and death. Upstart offspring had been known to take Soldrid—throwing themselves off buildings, exposing themselves to the cold—after they were denied University admission and Upstart status. Having someone lowered was a stain that didn’t wash off a family. And, for a bright kid from a Laborer background, becoming an Upstart was a victory for the whole extended clan, cause for decades of bragging and celebration.

Or so Tilrey had heard. In his twenty-five years, he’d never met an Upstart who’d been born to Laborer parents or vice versa. He doubted anyone in this room had, except perhaps for Katja Lunkoldd—who, as Gersha had pointed out, had Drudges in her family tree. For that reason alone, her colleagues treated her with careful condescension, regarding her election to the Council as an exemplary miracle of meritocracy.

Whyberg had never meant for Upstart status to be hereditary; the very word Upstart, _Linhedda_ , literally meant “self-propelled.” The founder’s favorite phrase was “Rule by the fittest with rotation at the top.” But how could the elite group rotate when they controlled the workings of the system, and none of them wanted to step aside?

That was why Lunkoldd’s bill was important; it took one small, significant piece of control away from the ruling cadre. Ranek Egil had alerted Tilrey to the legislation during one of their clandestine monthly conversations, saying, “We need to watch that one. It may not sound radical, but that’s the whole point. Radical bills never get anywhere. The key is to take things one tiny step at a time.”

Feeling a pressure in the air, as if someone were staring at him, Tilrey jerked his head upright to scan the room. All the Councillors and admins seemed to be keeping their eyes to themselves.

He recognized most of them—no surprise, since he’d slept with at least half the male Councillors during his years as a kettle boy, and one or two of the women. Some of the faces came with memories: smells, textures, caresses, moaning pleas and complaints. Others were just blanks in his head.

He certainly hadn’t slept with Katja Lunkoldd, who was the picture of female Upstart decorum with her toneless voice, stout figure, and elaborate crown of gray braids, not a hair out of place. All three of her children were engineers, Tilrey remembered hearing. He wondered, not for the first time, if she was part of Egil’s movement or even knew of its existence. Egil still refused to give him the names of their fellow travelers, claiming it was for his own safety.

The education expert was droning something about rates of University acceptance from Redda’s _kellthavina_ s, or schools that accepted qualified children of all backgrounds. Wishing he’d brought a thermos of strong tea, Tilrey examined his notes:

_Notification boards convene each spring._

_Ten boards, five Upstarts on each. Membership drawn from career bureaucrats._

_They consider all applicants, from both Laborer and Upstart families._

_Names removed from applications to prevent bias._

_Yet 94.6 percent of applicants still receive same Notification as their parents._

_Bill would expand boards to nine members each. Four new members would be drawn randomly from Upstart population._

He didn’t write down what Egil had explained to him: the bureaucrats who currently populated the boards had access to records and insider sources that made it easy for them to match applications to family names. Some were well known to accept favors from Upstart families desperate to ensure the status of their offspring.

The current system was, in short, rigged to _avoid_ rotation at the top. An infusion of new blood might free it up to work as Whyberg had intended—or that was the theory. Privately, Tilrey had doubts that meritocracy would ever be free of bias—who got to decide what “merit” was, anyway?

But he kept on scribbling, because, if this bill passed, some motivated kid growing up in Thurskein right now might get a chance to be an Upstart. Tilrey might not give a fuck about the ideology, but he’d known some pretty smart kids back home. He didn’t mind the idea of their crashing the Upstarts’ party.

Raising his eyes to examine a new speaker on the dais, he felt watched again. He whipped his head around to catch a trim Councillor with a smooth bullet of silver hair gazing at him from across the amphitheater.

The man’s expression revealed nothing. When Tilrey glared back, he smoothly returned his gaze to the tablet he was typing on.

Piter Ekorin. He was an Islander, generally seen even by Councillors across the aisle as stolidly virtuous and incorruptible. Brusque and a poor conversationalist, he sang the praises of his wife, children, nieces, and nephews to anyone who would listen, making more worldly colleagues like Verán roll their eyes and say, “That Pisha, what a bore.”

In bed, though, it was another story. Ekorin was entertainingly eccentric, sometimes borderline violent, at least in Tilrey’s limited experience.

He dropped his eyes demurely, then peered up through his lashes. The man was looking at him again. _Interesting._ The Island held a majority of just one on this committee, and Ekorin had been known to swing to the other side on occasion.

On the dais, Lunkoldd’s voice was gaining an edge as the committee members began asking her and her experts pointed questions:

“Don’t we put enough of a civic burden on our citizens without asking them to serve on Notification boards?”

“Should a duty this important be given to amateurs?”

“Why do you see the lack of movement between the Levels as a problem? To put it crudely, if intelligence is inherited, maybe the system is working exactly as it should.”

The last argument always made Tilrey bristle in some deep-down place, but he didn’t show it. If Upstarts wanted to think his Drudge genes made him stupid, well, let them. Sometimes that assumption worked to his advantage.

The Islanders were trying to push the bill to a quick vote, while the Mainlanders, more sympathetic to it, wanted another day of debate. In a show of hands, the majority held, and the vote was scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.

_Too soon._ If the bill could at least get out of committee, the full-Council debate would force some Councillors to go on record supporting or denying the concept of inherited privilege. While minutes of committee meetings weren’t released to the public, the Council Record was in the Library for anyone to read. No wonder the Islanders wanted to kill the measure quickly and invisibly.

But if just one of them wavered . . .

The meeting broke up, and Councillors traipsed out of the room in small groups, their white robes flowing behind them. Tilrey stayed behind, pretending to go over his notes, until a voice above him asked, “What on earth are you doing here, lad?”

Tilrey tried to pretend he hadn’t been expecting to see Ekorin standing there with a bemused smile tugging at his thin lips.

“I’m Fir Gádden’s secretary now, Fir.” He rose and clasped his hands behind his back, acknowledging the man’s status. “He asked me to attend this meeting as his proxy while he’s occupied elsewhere.”

Ekorin made a sound in his throat. “How odd.”

When he wanted to endear himself to Upstarts who were socially awkward—as so many were—Tilrey always tried to imitate his friend Bror, who could make friends with anyone. He glanced up with a frank smile. “Is that a compliment, Fir?”

Ekorin cleared his throat again and shifted his stance. “Well, I must say, having you here, uh, improves the view. But isn’t this dreadfully boring for a lad like you?”

“Thanks, Fir. And yeah, it can be.” Another grin to put the man at ease. “But I like being useful.”

“Why does Gersha want a proxy at this meeting, anyway?” Ekorin perched on the back of a seat, his small dark eyes boring into Tilrey’s. “I’ve never known him to be interested in domestic policy.”

The subtext was clear: _And doesn’t Verán tell him how to vote?_ Tilrey was offended on Gersha’s behalf, though once it had been true.

“Fir Gádden’s broadening his interests, Fir,” he said, fixing a smile on his face. “He likes to be well informed and think for himself.”

Ekorin raised one steel-gray eyebrow. “I was rather surprised when he broke ranks on the Lindblom-Gelmedyn measure.”

“Maybe Gádden used to take his cues from his elders, but not anymore, Fir. He’s a brilliant man.”

Tilrey watched Ekorin carefully to see if he would flinch at such free speech, but the man only said, “I was thinking mainly that he’s a lucky man. To, uh, be your protector.”

In his leaden, decorous way, the Councillor was flirting. A plan formed in Tilrey’s mind, the pieces flying together with beautiful alacrity. Egil hadn’t asked him to do anything but gather information here, but what if he could do more? What if he could influence things?

“That’s kind of you to say, Fir.” He wished he could summon a blush to his cheeks, but his acting skills didn’t extend that far. “Actually, I’m glad we met, because Gersha—Fir Gádden—told me you know everything there is to know about education policy. He said you might be able to give me a briefing. Just a summary I could convey to him.”

“A briefing?” Ekorin’s lips twitched, as if he were mentally substituting some other word. “Well, I suppose I do have a few minutes. If that would be helpful to Gersha. Come along to my office.”

The corridors were nearly empty, the other Councillors having drifted back to their offices or out to start enjoying the free-night. Tilrey was grateful; the last thing he needed was to run into Gersha now. Ekorin seemed self-conscious, too; he walked briskly, without a glance backward, as if he were alone.

When they reached his office, he held the door for Tilrey, then told his secretary, a grandmotherly woman with a white bun, “No visitors for the rest of the day, Kreifal. You can go home now.”

“Thank you, Fir,” said the secretary. Her eyes skated over Tilrey as if he weren’t quite there, and he knew she’d interpreted Ekorin’s permission to go home as an order. For all his surface virtue, the Councillor no doubt had had assignations with pretty young men in his office before.

A heavy feeling settled in Tilrey’s stomach as he let Ekorin usher him into the mustiness of the inner office. He’d been out of his old life for only eight months, but there were aspects of it he doubted he’d ever miss, and the secretary’s jaded reaction was one of them. _Oh, that’s just a piece. Wonder who he belongs to?_

The overhead lights flicked on automatically, revealing an office almost identical to Gersha’s. Ekorin locked the door and flicked them off again. In the deep twilight that filtered through the blinds, he turned to Tilrey without a word and shoved him up against the closed door.

Taken slightly off guard, Tilrey managed not to flinch, and when Ekorin’s lips mashed his, he opened his mouth reflexively. Ekorin attacked him like an exile finding food in the Wastes—tongue darting into his throat, one hand snaking under his jerkin.

Tilrey made himself receptive without reciprocating, inching down the door so the Councillor wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe to reach him. _No, I don’t miss this._ There was something both electric and repellent about the dry little man’s sheer desperation.

He allowed the kissing and groping to proceed for a few more seconds before pushing Ekorin mildly but firmly away. “This doesn’t seem like a briefing to me, Fir.”

Ekorin was panting so hard it took him a moment to answer. “Don’t tease me, lad.” He pressed Tilrey’s shoulder against the door, fingertips dipping under his collar to rub bare skin, as if the interruption of contact were physically painful. “We both know why you’re here.”

“I’m not here for myself, Fir.” Was Ekorin really vain enough to think Tilrey desired him? Sometimes they were.

“I’m here for Gersha,” he went on, emphasizing the nickname and all the intimacy it implied. _I belong to him._ “And, as I mentioned before, Fir, Gersha’s very interested in this bill. He’s a Whybergian purist, you see. He embraces the idea of removing even the slightest taint of inherited privilege from the Notification process.”

Ekorin’s other hand was creeping down his hip and under his jerkin again. Tilrey caught it and stroked the palm with his thumb. He allowed the Councillor to press against him, practically vibrating with need, but didn’t relax his own stance or let his voice falter. “He’d like the full Council to hear the bill. And that, Fir, won’t happen unless you vote for it tomorrow.”

Ekorin seemed to take a moment to process this, his hand frozen in Tilrey’s own. When he spoke again, it was in an uncharacteristic growl. “So he’s trying to . . . extort my vote? In violation of the Ethics Code?”

“Of course not, Fir.” Tilrey spread his legs and drew the man up against him. “Gersha despises the extortion of favors as much as you do. That’s one reason he’s had to distance himself from the majority leader.”

He shook his head as if to deplore such practices, letting Ekorin’s rock-hard cock rut against his hip through its swaddling of wool, and put his body on auto-pilot while his brain concocted the best way to bypass the man’s scruples.

“You see, Fir, Gersha sees you as a purist, too,” he said, evading Ekorin’s kiss to keep his mouth free for talking. “He thinks the two of you could help purify the Island of this troublesome strain of—ah, that’s nice, Fir—of, uh, decadence. Corruption.”

He leaned into the Councillor’s hand, which had snuck down from his shoulder to his cock, feeling himself harden with the usual professional detachment. Tried not to think about how far from detached he’d felt a few hours ago when Gersha’s mouth was in the same place.

_I’ll have to tell Gersha._ This maneuver would never work without his lover’s active cooperation. But he’d worry about that later.

Ekorin slipped one of Tilrey’s knuckles into his mouth and sucked, then popped it out to ask sternly, “The ‘two of us,’ you said? An alliance of two is nothing. I would never break ranks and vote for a Mainlander bill without more Island support.”

“Fir Gádden has Besha and Niko Karishkov voting with him now, Fir. You saw them form a bloc at the last session.” Never mind that both of those increasingly powerful Islanders were indeed being extorted, bowing to the will of a colleague who knew their darkest secrets.

Tilrey raised Ekorin’s captive hand to his mouth and kissed the palm, his go-to move when an Upstart needed to be seduced and placated at once. “So, Gersha sent me to, uh, feel you out, Fir. To see if you and he could reach an understanding on this pressing issue of purifying our education system of—oh, Fir!” He grunted as Ekorin’s free hand closed around his cock again, but his mind stayed clear. “Oh, that’s good, Fir. That’s nice.”

“He sent you to ‘feel me out,’ eh?” Ekorin’s tone was sardonic as his body abruptly went still against Tilrey’s, a slight trembling betraying the effort it took him not to keep moving. “Maybe we should continue this _discussion_ in my apartment where we can be sure of privacy.”

Tilrey had been expecting this, though it gave him another twinge of that heavy resignation. The vote was tomorrow, which meant Ekorin had to be satisfied tonight, regardless of what he and Gersha had planned.

It wasn’t necessary to obtain an explicit promise; well versed in the etiquette of sexual currency, Ekorin would feel duty-bound to deliver the committee vote after receiving what he viewed as Gersha’s payment. To renege on such an implicit bargain would be like taking a blow-torch to the glue of favors and services that held the Council together. Ekorin might not vote the same way in the general Council session, but that was a concern for later.

Tilrey bent to whisper, squeezing the Councillor’s cock against his thigh. “I’ll take the tram and be at your place in fifteen minutes, Fir. Best we not be seen together.”

Ekorin pressed against him, gripping his wrist hard enough to cut off the circulation. “Don’t be late.”

***

Gersha checked the wall clock impatiently. The Ed Committee meeting had been over for nearly two hours now. He’d been willing himself _not_ to go into the antechamber and check for Tilrey’s return, but he’d held out for a good half-hour now, and could anyone expect more from his self-control?

He eased the door open, knowing he was being a fool. If Tilrey were here, he would have come straight in, the way he did every free-night, and sat himself on Gersha’s desk or in his lap and given Gersha a kiss and said, “Don’t you think it’s time to give your poor brain a rest, Fir?”

Sure enough, the antechamber was empty. But there was something different—a sheet of bright yellow note paper on the floor, just beyond the closed door, as if slipped underneath. Gersha picked it up and read, in the bold, sloping handwriting he knew so well—endearingly messy handwriting for someone so controlled— _Something came up, love. I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. Back by midnight, will explain everything then._

He pressed the note against his tunic, crumpling it, trying to ignore the disappointment that hollowed out his chest and the sense of foreboding that pulsed behind his eyes. Never in the past eight months had Tilrey not gone home with him on a free-night—or on most other nights, for that matter.

But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a good explanation. Maybe someone close to Tilrey had been taken ill. Maybe Besha was being difficult again. Whatever it was, the boy could handle it. _He’ll be back by midnight. I trust him. Don’t I?_

***

Ekorin fucked like an assembly-line robot—fast, quiet, hard, rarely varying his rhythm. Tilrey remembered it all now—the gasping, the sweating, the silence.

They hadn’t had time to undress; two steps into the living room, Ekorin had grappled him down onto the floor. By now, that floor was starting to feel hard on his elbows and knees through the carpet. Ekorin’s nails kept digging deeper into his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes and focused on staying in position, tilting his hips to meet the man’s thrusts.

_Why don’t I enjoy this?_ In his two years plus with Gersha, Tilrey had given some thought to what he actually liked in bed, because Gersha insisted on asking and caring. Careful observation of his body had taught him there were times when he didn’t like to be touched at all, and times (usually) when only Gersha’s touch was good, and times when he just wanted to be fucked hard, it didn’t matter by whom.

He could tell Gersha about the first two moods, but not about the third. Gersha understood the appeal of being fucked hard; it was often exactly what he wanted Tilrey to do to him. But he shuddered at the idea of anonymous or impersonal coupling. As for fucking hard, Gersha was certainly capable of that, too; he’d often done it in their early days, when he was discovering how to let go and take his pleasure. But these days he tended to be more circumspect, deliberately gentle, asking for reassurance at every turn.

Maybe Gersha’s gentleness had something to do with the sordid details of Tilrey’s history that he’d read in Egil’s report. Tilrey didn’t like to ask. He also didn’t like to admit there were times when he craved rough handling. So he phrased it in careful ways (“You can be as rough with me as you like, love; I’m not breakable”) that made it easy for Gersha to assure him that the last thing in the world he wanted was to hurt Tilrey the way other men had.

_You couldn’t possibly hurt me, not like they did. With us, it wouldn’t be like that._ But Tilrey didn’t know how to explain to his lover, whose desires were relatively straightforward, that there were good and bad ways to be hurt. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself. He had zero nostalgia for the days when Magistrate Linden used to beat him, yet he sometimes wanted a good hard slap so badly he could taste it. Who could explain that?

Once, in his early days as a secretary, when he was feeling especially nervous and fretful about getting his new duties right, Tilrey had sought out his friend Bror and shared a bottle of rotgut vodka and asked Bror to slap him. “Right here. Not hard enough to bruise. Please. Don’t look at me that way. I just need it.”

“Look at you what way?” Then Bror slapped Tilrey, without warning, and it felt good, really good, though it could have been harder.

“Before you ask, no, I won’t do it again,” Bror said, refilling both their tumblers. “Not tonight, anyway.”

Tilrey ran his fingertips down his cheek, feeling the sting on the sensitive flesh, letting it sink in. The pain steadied him, stopped his head from spinning. “What the fuck do you think is wrong with me?” he asked.

Bror had shrugged and taken a deep gulp. “Nothing. I used to know a Councillor who’d ask me to backhand him. Another one liked getting spanked, and I kinda got off on doing it. Everybody’s got their thing.”

Indeed. But Tilrey’s “thing” wasn’t a thing Gersha was likely to understand.

So now he was getting fucked hard, all right, and he tried to feel something, just for the sake of research, but Ekorin’s impersonal roughness wasn’t right. Maybe it was too mechanical. Maybe he needed a touch of degradation, of contempt.

Back in the days when Linnett fucked Tilrey hard, there’d usually been a tacit understanding between them that Tilrey didn’t like it and Linnett knew and didn’t care, or even preferred it that way. _Bear with me, lad. I know you can take it. Oh, you look lovely when you’re on the brink of tears._ Green hells, was he feeling nostalgic for _that_ now?

Tilrey stayed firm on his hands and knees as Ekorin finally came inside him with a barking shout, the gushing warmth making him squint with revulsion. Then he lowered himself to the ground as the man slumped on top of him.

Could he get out of here without an encore? He’d promised Gersha midnight, and he wouldn’t go back on that. But Ekorin had stamina; he was no more than fifty-five.

The Councillor got up off him, brisk and businesslike as ever. “I’ll see you in my bed, sweetheart,” he said, padding off toward the bathroom.

Walking to the bedroom hurt; all that robotic fucking made you sore. Tilrey leaned against the bedpost until the Councillor came back, naked under a robe, hair damp from his shower, head tilted to one side. “Why are you still dressed? And not _in_ the bed?”

“You didn’t say to undress, Fir.” Tilrey shed his clothes smoothly, letting the old professional reflexes kick in, folding each piece as he went and dropping them in a neat pile. Already in bed, Ekorin watched appreciatively, then beckoned, extending his hand with a puddle of dark-amber sap in the palm.

Tilrey crawled into the bed, trying not to wince, and took hold of the Councillor’s wrist. “I can only stay a few more hours, Fir. Gersha’s expecting me.”

“Have to service him, too, do you?” But Ekorin didn’t seem miffed that they wouldn’t be spending the whole night together. “You like that, don’t you?” he asked as Tilrey licked the sap from his palm. “Getting fucked, I mean. Getting a nice hard stuffing.”

“I like it.” He kept his eyes down, knowing Ekorin needed to hear that, waiting for the sap to fill the dry cracks in his brain. He shouldn’t have any more, because there was exactly zero chance Gersha wouldn’t be waiting up for him. He needed all his wits for that. “And you’re good at it, Fir.”

“Mmm.” Ekorin licked sap from his own palm, then reached out to tip Tilrey’s chin up. “When I saw you in that godforsaken committee chamber, I couldn’t look at anything else. It was like seeing a patch of summer sunlight in midwinter. Your hair—it’s like the sun slanting through the dry grass down south.” He brushed a lock behind Tilrey’s ear. “Your eyes remind me of the noonday sky. Or a running stream.”

“You’re quite the poet, Fir.” He leaned into the touch, amused.

“Poet? Not at all,” said Ekorin. “I prefer facts. Turn around.” He nuzzled Tilrey’s shoulder. “I want you like you were before.”

“Ready to go again already, Fir?” Tilrey levered himself onto his hands and knees, hoping not. Perhaps he should find a way to discuss the bill some more; if the Councillor found him that attractive, he might make at least a token effort to listen.

“No, no, not yet. I want to see your nape.”

Tilrey let his head fall forward obligingly, glad he could hide his bemused grin in this position. _You are an odd one, Fir._

Gentle fingers stroked the tender skin at his hairline, and Ekorin said, “There’s a theory that people find the nape of the neck erotic because, when prehistoric men fucked women from behind, their eyes focused on that spot. It’s all about reproduction, you see.”

_You’ve never fucked your wife from behind, Fir?_ He substituted an innuendo: “Does your wife have a nice nape, Fir?”

The Councillor slapped Tilrey on the ass, hard enough to bring all his sap-addled nerves alive. “Don’t talk about my wife. Ever.”

“Of course not, Fir. I’m sorry.” Green hills and valleys, finally something that felt good. He let the pain focus his thoughts to a sharp point: _Blow him, and then get out of here._

But Ekorin’s thoughts seemed to be on another track. “Fir Verán used to say you were stupid, but you seem clever enough to me. So maybe you can tell me something.”

“Yes, Fir?” Tilrey stared straight ahead at the headboard—pale-gold wood, barely distinguishable from the white bedclothes.

“Why do you Drudges _want_ to get yourself Raised?” Ekorin sounded exasperated, but also genuinely bewildered. “What use could you possibly have for the University, or programming, or government offices, or any of _our_ things?”

_Not this nonsense again._ Tilrey swallowed down bitterness and tried to think of a diplomatic answer. “I don’t know, Fir. I mean, me personally—I never even thought about it. But didn’t Whyberg say power should rotate?”

“Yes, but all higher status brings is stress and worries and responsibility—surely you’re clever enough to understand that? A boy like you—so lovely to look at, so relaxed and easy-going. A boy like you makes life less ugly.” Ekorin’s voice throbbed sentimentally. “Why would you want to ruin your beautiful eyes staring at screens, or tear out your beautiful hair, or give yourself headaches thinking about policy? Why can’t you leave that nastiness to us?”

Something shivered down Tilrey’s spine, a mixture of disgust and anger and shameful, undeniable arousal. Talk like this was all too familiar; he’d heard it from many Councillors over the years. They were insecure; they needed him to confirm their superiority.

“All I’m doing is serving Gersha, Fir. He does the thinking for me.” _Well, it certainly might be easier if he did. But this was my idea, and it better fucking work._

“I hope so,” Ekorin said.

Tilrey turned back around and let Ekorin draw him into his arms, arching his back to expose his neck. The man’s lips fastened on Tilrey’s throat, kissing and suckling, as he murmured, “That isn’t what _you_ want, is it, sweetheart? To be in charge? To be an Upstart?”

“No, Fir.” Part of that was true: he couldn’t imagine being an Upstart at this point in his life, much less desire it. He could, however, imagine being in charge.

“I know what I was made for,” he said, “But what about the Drudges who aren’t like me, Fir? People with brilliant heads for numbers and machines, who would be wasted on a factory floor?”

Ekorin made a derisive sound. “Intelligence doesn’t appear out of nowhere. It’s hereditary, just like your muscular frame and your pretty blue eyes. I’ve never known a Laborer who had more than a surface cleverness.”

_Perhaps because you never looked deeper._ “But didn’t Whyberg say genetics aren’t destiny, and sometimes genetics work in ways we don’t understand?” Tilrey ran his fingers tentatively through the Councillor’s silver hair and was rewarded with the nip of Ekorin’s teeth. “At least, that’s how Gersha explains it to me, Fir. He says this bill isn’t meant to change the social order, just to let the occasional exception through.”

“Mmm. Well, Gersha’s read his Whyberg, I suppose. But you’re exceptional in a whole different way, aren’t you?”

Long minutes were lost to Ekorin’s hungry attack on his throat before the Councillor whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “You know, if _I_ could be a Laborer, I would.”

Now it really was hard not to laugh or pull away. “Really, Fir? Why?”

Ekorin sucked Tilrey’s earlobe for a moment, groaned, released it. “Wouldn’t anyone? It’s so much easier to do as you’re told. To have no responsibilities.” He moved Tilrey’s hand to his burgeoning cock. “Some nights I feel like I’ll go crazy from all the facts and figures in my head. The _stress_ , you know?”

_So give up your spot to someone who actually does want to lead._ But it wasn’t that simple, was it? Being an Upstart wasn’t primarily about leading or responsibility anymore, Tilrey realized with an odd sense of release. It was about pride, privilege, and power. He’d known that, but he’d needed an Upstart to confirm it—because, on some level, he still didn’t trust his own insight, his “surface cleverness.” Outwitting and manipulating Upstarts was satisfying, but it never quite took away the fear that his brain was a slippery, unreliable surface on which he might tumble at any moment.

“Everyone needs to de-stress sometimes,” he murmured in Ekorin’s ear, palming the man’s cock and finding a rhythm. “There’s nothing wrong with that, Fir. And when you make your vote on that bill, you can be sure it’s based on a thorough consideration of facts and figures, and a strategy that Gersha and Besha hammered out in dozens of meetings. Because not everyone can think about everything at once, not even you. Am I right?”

Ekorin gasped, straining up into Tilrey’s working hand. “I said I’ll do it. Please stop _talking_.”

He obliged.

***

At the tram stop, Tilrey stepped outside for a moment; he needed fresh air in his lungs. The cold was blistering, and a storm was massing in the east; vast cloud-banks reflected the city lights, chalky against the stretches of navy-blue sky.

A familiar voice asked, “What are you doing out alone so late, lad?”

Tilrey turned to find Councillor Linbeck—Besha—standing poised beside a waiting, gently vibrating mag-car. He was swaddled in puffy layers and hooded, a scarf covering his mouth and nose, but those narrowed, cynical eyes were instantly recognizable.

“An errand for Gersha, Fir.” Tilrey took another breath—a scythe in his lungs—and felt icy tears prickle in his eyes. The cold was a slap, too _._ “I’m just getting back to him now.”

He expected Besha to toss an obscene taunt at him, but the man only said, “Best go quick before the storm comes. I don’t know how Gersha manages to let you go out alone on a free-night, but I guess you’ve got no shortage of quality time together, have you?”

Tilrey shrugged, dropping his eyes.

“Verdant hells, I wish I had someone like you warming my bed every night. I hope the man knows how lucky he is.”

It was rare to hear Besha express his envy so openly; Tilrey felt oddly touched. “I guess he thinks he’s lucky, Fir. I sometimes wonder.”

“Don’t be a fool.” Thin, silvery flakes were beginning to gust between them. Besha shivered. “I’ve just been visiting my lovely wife, and let me tell you, I sometimes wish I’d chosen celibacy myself—at least if it’s the kind of ‘celibacy’ you and Gersha practice.”

Before Tilrey could respond, the Councillor drew himself up, grabbing at a stray end of his long scarf. “If I keep standing here I’ll freeze. And you—hurry home, eh? That man adores you more than’s good for him. Shouldn’t keep him waiting.”

And Besha turned on his heel and marched to the car, leaving Tilrey alone with the sting of the snow on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

When Tilrey came in, at five minutes to midnight, Gersha was in bed doing his best to read the Council Record. He could barely stomach it at the best of times, and his concentration fled entirely as footsteps paused at his door, then detoured into the bathroom. After a minute or so—he read the same sentence about a quorum five times—he heard the hiss of the shower.

He was not going to be jealous, possessive, or neurotic. He was _not._ He had told Tilrey countless times that his time was his own, and that he could live in Gersha’s apartment and sleep in Gersha’s bed without needing to be “available” to Gersha on free-nights, or at any other time.

Tilrey still usually _was_ available, and Gersha had a sneaking dread that he sometimes said yes to sex when he wasn’t interested. But three times he had admitted, “I don’t feel like it right now” with no prodding from Gersha, and each of those nos was a milestone.

So yes, Tilrey deserved his privacy. But the note had said “urgent,” so it wasn’t wrong for Gersha to be concerned and curious, was it? He could keep sitting here in bed, pretending to read, but all his nerves were vibrating. Tilrey would see right through it, and anyway, wasn’t honesty better with someone you loved? Didn’t lies always come back to hurt you?

And so he threw off the blankets, padded to the door of the bathroom, and opened it softly. The shower was still running. He sank onto the bench beside the tub, letting the steam permeate his thin pajamas.

Vapor hung thick in the air, obscuring the far wall, giving the room the vague dimensions of a dream. The humidity soothed Gersha’s worries, and he closed his eyes, waiting for Tilrey to finish.

***

Gersha looked rather excruciatingly beautiful with the black curls plastered to his pale forehead. When his spooky green eyes opened wide, shining with steam, tears, or both, Tilrey wanted to pull him into his arms and feel the Upstart’s whole body mold itself to his, trembling with surrender.

That was his first reaction. Next came a stab of irritation— _Why couldn’t you just wait in the bedroom? Why are you always watching me with that damned concerned, reproachful look?_

He pulled down a towel and began drying himself, deliberately moving no faster than normal. He could feel Gersha’s eyes on him, and he knew the marks of Ekorin’s lips practically glowed on his pale neck and throat and perhaps other places he hadn’t noticed yet. Well, too bad.

He was not going to be shame-faced or furtive, and he wasn’t going to lie, and most importantly—though this was the hardest part—he wasn’t going to sink onto his knees before Gersha and worship the man’s cock with his tongue and do his best to drown all Gersha’s justified questions in satisfaction.

What he’d done tonight, he’d done in Gersha’s name, which meant he couldn’t postpone the confession—not even till tomorrow. Ekorin might bump into Gersha in the Council chamber and say something. So it didn’t matter if Tilrey ached from Ekorin’s vigorous efforts and his throat was scratchy and his brain was weary of policy and scheming and he just wanted to suck Gersha’s cock and then sink into a dreamless sleep. The time was now.

Gersha rose from the bench, hugging himself in his damp sleep-shirt. “I’m sorry,” he said.

In their early days, Tilrey would have assured him, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Fir,” whether he thought so or not. Now he simply discarded the towel, slipped a robe over his shoulders, and took Gersha’s arm. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes.” Gersha let himself be led back to the bedroom, but he didn’t meet Tilrey’s eyes until they were both settled on the bed.

“You said you’d explain.” Gersha’s eyes flitted up to the telltale marks on Tilrey’s neck and away, too quickly. The fastidious twitch of his lips was hard to miss. “But you don’t need to explain anything if it doesn’t concern me—or if you don’t want to. You never need to explain anything. I only thought, because you said ‘urgent’. . .”

“Shh, Fir.” Tilrey pulled back the covers and tucked Gersha in, then rested one steadying hand on his Fir’s shoulder. _Green hills and running streams, I really don’t want to do this._

But he had no choice. Part of taking the lead was taking responsibility, as Ekorin had so kindly pointed out to him.

“You’ve been good enough to trust me, love,” he said, gazing into Gersha’s wide, damp eyes. “And actually, this does concern you.”

He couldn’t miss the way Gersha glanced at his mottled neck again, eyes narrowing, clearly wondering what on earth _that_ had to do with him. “How?”

Tilrey braced himself, then began. “I think we’re in agreement on what your goals in the Council are, Fir. But sometimes achieving those goals takes more than orating and writing reports and hoping your colleagues will see the light. It takes special finessing, like we did with Besha and Karishkov. And when I see an opportunity, it’s hard not to seize it . . .”

***

As Tilrey related the events of that afternoon and evening, Gersha drew away from him by centimeters until he was sitting with his back straight against the headboard, hands clasped in his lap.

He tried to keep his face blank, but he couldn’t suppress the occasional shiver of revulsion. A place he’d considered safe—his bedroom—was now a place where he was degraded and his will turned to a mockery. A person he’d considered safe—his beautiful, brilliant, creative, considerate lover—was announcing that he had used Gersha’s name to authorize things Gersha would never, ever want him to do. Accept, yes, but never want, and certainly not _order_.

When Tilrey fell silent, Gersha forced himself to look up. The boy hadn’t tried to close the distance between them. He sat cross-legged with elbows on knees, looking more _worried_ than Gersha had seen him in a long time, as if he actually needed a sign of approval.

Which, clearly, he didn’t, or else tonight wouldn’t have happened.

“So, the upshot is, Ekorin will vote for this bill tomorrow?” Gersha’s voice sounded small and tinny in his own ears.

Tilrey nodded.

Gersha swallowed hard, but yes, it had to be said aloud. “And he’ll do it because you . . . you . . .” He reached for the euphemism Verán and the other senior Councillors always used to refer to the exchange of kettle boys’ sexual favors. “You obliged him.”

Tilrey seemed about to speak, but Gersha cut him off. “And he thinks the whole thing was my choice. My idea. To exchange you, to _sell_ you for his vote.”

Tilrey grimaced a little, his eyes not meeting Gersha’s. “Well, he has to believe that, Fir. If he thought I was acting alone, he wouldn’t have agreed to it.”

_No, indeed. And rightly._ Now that the boy was looking so contrite, Gersha felt outraged pride swell in his chest. He kept his voice level, though, because he couldn’t let his point, his _real_ point, get lost in the chaos of his emotions. If he got angry enough, Tilrey would start playing the role of the meek little kettle boy again, and that did neither of them any good.

“I’m not angry because you slept with him,” he said tightly. “I want you to understand that—it’s important. I don’t _like_ that you slept with him, but that’s not what I’m angry about.”

Normally, at such a tense point in the conversation, Tilrey would have reached out to touch Gersha, to calm him. Now he only hugged his own chest. “I understand, Fir.”

_Why do you think I’m angry, then?_ He wanted to hurl that barbed question, but if he lashed out, Tilrey would respond with gestures of submission, and Gersha didn’t need that. He needed attention.

If he had to, he would state the obvious and look like a fool. He would make an obstacle that Tilrey’s ingenuity couldn’t slither around.

“I’m angry because you misused my trust.” His voice was shaking—fine, let it. “I understand why you want that bill to go to a full Council vote. I agree with you. But would I have paid that price for it? Would _I_ have fucked Ekorin? No. You know how I feel about sex as currency. Yet you went right ahead and did that, and you did it _in my name_.”

He clenched his fists, unable to look at Tilrey. “Can you imagine how that feels, to have someone do something in your name that you don’t believe in? To know that act will always be associated with you? I know what you’re thinking—that I’m being ‘prudish’ again. But think about that, Tilrey. Think about how I’ll have to face Ekorin for years to come, in and out of the Council chambers, and see in his face the reflection of what he thinks _I_ am when it was actually a choice _you_ made. So yes, I’m goddamn pissed at you. I won’t pretend I’m not.”

Saying the words left Gersha lightheaded, almost giddy, as if a burden had slid off his shoulders. He was furious at the person he loved most in the world, and he’d said so, and somehow the world hadn’t ended. He hadn’t swallowed his feelings and told Tilrey it was fine when it was not, and he hadn’t ordered the boy out of his bed or his life, either. Maybe this honesty thing could actually work. Maybe he’d drawn a boundary that wouldn’t be crossed again.

Then he looked up and found Tilrey gazing at him with no expression at all, and his breath caught, because this was all wrong.

“You can hit me, Gersha,” Tilrey said quietly. “Is that what you want?”

The words lashed Gersha like a blow. With no conscious intention, he reached across the gap between them and slapped Tilrey on the cheek.

The poorly angled blow barely landed. Gersha snatched his hand back and clasped it with the other as if it had acted of its own accord. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t . . . I didn’t want to do that. I don’t know why—I don’t want—”

“No, you don’t want to hit me. No matter what I do.” Tilrey’s voice was confident now, almost mocking, as he edged closer. “You did it because I told you to.”

Again the white-hot flash, the impulse quicker than thought, the hand slicing the air between them. This time Gersha heard a resonant clap as his palm met Tilrey’s cheek, and he felt Tilrey flinch from the impact, and a tiny part of him relished it. _He asked for it, didn’t he?_

Then he was down on his knees with his forehead pressed to the duvet, his hands over his eyes, moaning, “No. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m angry, but I don’t, I won’t, I never . . . Rishka. Please. I love you.”

After a moment, Tilrey’s hand was in his hair, stroking back the curls. “That’s all right, love. You know it’s all right.” A feather-light kiss on his nape.

But it wasn’t all right. It would never be all right. Gersha had done something he despised, something unforgivable, and it didn’t matter if Tilrey had goaded him to do it, because this time it _had_ been his choice.

He sat up and reached out blindly for his lover, pushing the robe back, feeling the chalky warmth of skin. And _why_ had Tilrey goaded him? To distract him?

No, there was more to it. He could tell by the way the boy’s body opened to his, his arms sliding around Gersha, his breath hot on Gersha’s cheek. That was not fake submission. That was . . . hunger.

“You needed that,” he said in Tilrey’s ear, amazed by the revelation and yet certain. “You wanted that. What I just did. Why?”

Tilrey’s hand slipped between Gersha’s legs, but Gersha gently removed it. He didn’t want that distraction, not now, though the boy’s stubbled cheek sliding against his neck sent delicious shivers down his spine. “Why?” he asked almost sternly.

Tilrey groaned and hid his face against Gersha’s collarbone, his fingertips teasing up the edges of Gersha’s shirt to rest against his waist, skin to skin. They stayed that way for a bit, just breathing, and then Tilrey said very softly, “When he . . . when Magistrate Linden . . . when he was angry, I could always feel it. It made the air thicker, electrically charged, like when you know someone desires you. It called to something inside me. And then when he hit me . . .”

His breath caught on an exhale, and he went silent for a moment, his nails digging lightly into Gersha’s waist. Gersha raised one hand to stroke the boy’s neck, and then his hair, moving as carefully as if Tilrey were a wild creature that might start to bite and claw itself free at the first sign of constraint.

“It was . . . a release, I guess you’d say. Bror says it’s a normal thing, but I still don’t understand it. There was something in me that hungered for that anger. I wanted all the Magistrate’s anger, I wanted it inside me, like I could ground it. The first few blows were always so _good._ ”

He shuddered, and Gersha felt an answering shudder move down his own spine. “But not after that?”

Tilrey shook his head, his face tight against Gersha’s chest. “Usually it only felt good until he drew blood. Or knocked me down. Then it just fucking hurt. But those first few slaps, when he was looking at me with his eyes all lit up with pissiness, like he saw something dangerous in me and he wanted to beat it out of me . . .” He drew a sharp breath. “I don’t know if I can explain to you, Fir—Gersha. But I was angry, too. I was vibrating with it, and the anger inside me rushed to meet his, and I did feel dangerous. I felt _powerful_.”

He released his breath in a wrenching sigh. “I guess it was the only time I felt safe being angry. When I was standing there and letting him beat the shit out of me. And I knew there’d be bruises, and Verán would be pissed, and I liked that, too. It was worth every second of the pain, just knowing they’d look at me and see a _problem_ instead of an asset.”

Tilrey raised his head a little, but his eyes were still cast down, and Gersha caught the glint on his lashes. “Pretty fucked up, huh, Fir? Maybe that’s more than you bargained for having in your bed.”

It was more, yes, but it was never too much. Gersha wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak. He ran his hands lightly up and down Tilrey’s back until he was able to say, “You were _very_ angry, weren’t you? Back then. All the time.”

A faint chuckle. “Yeah. I guess I was.”

Gersha remembered how placid and blank Tilrey had appeared when they first met, like an exquisite shell with nothing inside, and how frustratingly difficult it had been to get him to express an honest opinion. He wanted to spit out his ferocious rage at Verán and Linden and the rest of them, all the men who’d forced Tilrey into a way of life where being angry was unthinkable. But he’d tried that before, and he knew too well how Tilrey felt about being “pitied.”

“So,” he said carefully, “when I told you I was pissed off just now, you got pissed off, too. And you figured the best way to handle that was . . . well, to let me hurt you.”

Tilrey did laugh then, and pulled away, though not far enough to loosen his hold on Gersha’s waist. “You sound like one of those counselors at the clinic, Fir, the ones who tinker with your brain to turn your thinking right again. Verán sent me to one of them once when I wouldn’t eat.”

He was trying to change the subject again, and it was late and they were both tired, but Gersha couldn’t let it drop. Remembering the strange release he’d felt when he expressed his own anger, he took hold of Tilrey’s face and gently raised it to meet his gaze. “So, you pissed me off and I drew a boundary. A pretty reasonable one, I think. And you got so angry right back that you needed to hurt somebody or be hurt. Why?”

Tilrey shook his head, his eyes focused to the side of Gersha. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why not?” Gersha knew the structure of Tilrey’s face intimately: the bony points of the jaw; the soft, giving lips; the high cheekbones; the thin-skinned temples where his lips could trace a pulse. Why did he feel so helplessly ignorant of what lay beneath?

But perhaps he wasn’t so ignorant after all, because words were coming to his lips unbidden. “It’s okay for you to be angry, Rishka. I don’t know if you have any good way of expressing it, but if you do, I won’t mind. And if you really want to be hit, too, like we just did, I can do that for you. Not more, not to hurt you, but just like that. Just to . . .”

He flinched as Tilrey sat up, brushing his hands off. But the boy only took hold of Gersha’s face lightly, the way Gersha had to him, and planted a lingering kiss on his brow.

“To calm me,” he finished the sentence, his clever fingers sneaking between Gersha’s thighs again. “You did, love. Thank you. And I get it, and I won’t violate your trust that way again. We’ll work things out. Tomorrow. Okay?”

_You can’t keep distracting me with sex._ Gersha’s face must have expressed his half-hearted objection, because Tilrey said, “I’m not trying to ‘manage’ you, Gersha. I just can’t . . . I’m so tired, I can’t talk anymore, and I’ve been wanting to touch you ever since this afternoon when that stupid meeting got in the way.”

Then he pushed Gersha onto his back, his hand closing on Gersha’s cock at the same instant their lips met. The warm, probing wetness of the boy’s tongue flicked teasingly at Gersha’s lips and slid deeper, growing more aggressive, and Gersha opened his mouth to it as heat mounted in his groin.

They’d talk more tomorrow, and they’d work things out. He swore it to himself. But for now—

He ground his hips against Tilrey, then relaxed the pressure and reached between them to capture the boy’s cock, whispering, “Let’s come together this time.”

***

Afterward, when he was sure Gersha was asleep, Tilrey turned out the lights in the bedroom and brushed his teeth.

Then he slipped quietly through the dark living room, unsealed the coldroom, and tugged on his greatcoat and boots. They weren’t adequate for midwinter when he was naked underneath, but he wouldn’t be outside long.

Just long enough to step into the thick of the storm. Flakes whirled around him, sparkling in the exterior floodlight, slamming arctic wind in his face. He could barely see two feet ahead of him, the city vanishing under the force of the squall. He kept one hand on the door handle and opened his mouth to the cold wetness, reveling in the hideous force of the wind. What if it could flatten all of Redda to the ground?

His fingers were nearly numb when he punched the door-code, less than a minute later. He collapsed into the coldroom, sealed the door, and sank onto the bench laughing, too giddy for a moment to handle the task of easing off his heavy boots.

The side door to the driver’s quarters grated open, and Bosh, Gersha’s driver, peered out, clad in his long johns. “Where’s the fucking party?” he grumbled, then took in Tilrey’s bare legs. “You okay, kid? Not going out like that?”

“No, no, just coming in.” He kept the coat wrapped around him, not wanting to make Bosh uncomfortable. Over the years, once Bosh had learned to trust Tilrey—he was very protective of Gersha—they’d fallen into a companionable relationship. Tilrey particularly appreciated that Bosh seemed to have no interest in fucking him.

“You should see it out there, though,” he added. “It’s better than ninety-proof vodka—my head’s spinning.”

Bosh scowled in his seen-it-all way. “That’s why it’s dangerous. Storm’ll hypnotize you if you let it. Back when I was in the service, I lost two comrades who got themselves lost less’n a kilometer from base.”

“Well, I’m not lost.” Tilrey rose and gave the driver a playful punch on the shoulder. “I just wanted a taste of it. Go back to bed, old man.”

“You’ve got strange ways sometimes, lad. All I’m saying is, be careful.”

“Oh, I’m always careful.” Tilrey wondered fleetingly if Bosh had guessed that he used to fantasize about hurling himself thirty stories off the parapet into the snow. But he hadn’t had such thoughts in . . . well, he couldn’t remember the last time.

Back inside the second seal, in the dark bedroom, he watched the squall batter the window at the edge of the blind. His fingers were still tingling, his ears ringing, all his nerves awake.

Then he slid into bed and drew his sleeping Fir into his arms. Gersha molded himself to Tilrey’s body, warm and slightly sweat-damp, murmuring happily without waking.

And Tilrey knew that yes, he’d been angry. His own private storm was still somewhere deep inside him, whipping and cold and scathing like the one outside. If he let it out, it would rage and howl and wipe people flat.

Ekorin, for instance, with his robotic fucking and his talk about “surface cleverness.” That storm would crush him to nothing. It would wipe Verán and his cronies off the face of the earth. It would level the Sector with the Council chambers inside. It would kill innocent people like Ekorin’s secretary, whose eyes had skimmed over Tilrey like he didn’t exist. It would destroy everyone who’d ever hurt or disrespected him, and many who hadn’t.

It might even hurt Gersha.

And so he would keep the storm deep inside, where it belonged. He pressed his face to the hollow of his Fir’s neck and kissed the collarbone, feeling the steady pulse under the thin, vulnerable skin.

Those slaps had felt good, but only because Gersha had been truly angry. If he did it again just to satisfy Tilrey, with pity in his eyes, it wouldn’t feel right at all.

It would be okay. Maybe Tilrey could find another willing partner, a Laborer—someone like Bosh, only with a taste for roughness. Maybe they could even explore a happy medium that Gersha enjoyed a little more—spanking, say. There were all sorts of options.

For now, though, Tilrey had that vote. He had that goddamned vote. And though he was sorry about everything he’d done to get it . . . well, he wasn’t quite sorry enough.

***

The next day, every time Gersha peeked out of his office, Tilrey was sitting at his desk in the antechamber, assiduously occupied with dull secretarial duties. He even ate lunch there, instead of wandering down the corridor to the secretaries’ lounge the way he usually did. (“They’re boring, but you hear a lot of political gossip in there,” he’d explained to Gersha. “Useful stuff.”)

After lunch, Gersha put on his white robe and went to sit on the Int/Sec committee. Three hours later, on his way out, he heard an admin mention something about “Ed Comm” and stopped her to ask, “Have they voted on that Notification procedures bill yet, do you know?”

The admin, already on her handheld, did some swiping. “They did, Councillor. Close vote, but it’s going to go to the full chamber.”

_He did it. He really did it._ Gersha felt oddly proud and shamed at once by what Tilrey had accomplished. And now, he supposed, he should ask his versatile secretary for a tutorial on the tedious text of the bill.

He returned to the office to find Tilrey still staring at his bulky screen, which connected to an office network without live news updates. “Have you heard?” he asked, unable to scrub the excitement from his voice.

Tilrey only nodded pensively, as if he’d heard the news hours ago and moved on to the next challenge. “Ekorin delivered, Fir. But if we want his help with the full Council vote, you’ll need to give him a briefing yourself. I could schedule a lunch. Maybe bring Besha.”

Gersha sat himself on the edge of Tilrey’s desk, feeling a bit ruffled. “First you’ll have to brief _me_ , remember? And if I’m going to throw my weight behind this, I should talk with Lunkoldd.”

“Way ahead of you, Fir.” Tilrey opened Gersha’s calendar. “You’re having tea with her day after tomorrow.” Noticing Gersha’s precarious position, he jumped to his feet. “You know you shouldn’t perch like that while I’m sitting, Fir. At least not while the door’s ajar. It makes it look like you’re not the one in charge.”

Gersha sighed loudly, but he didn’t really mind the gentle scolding about protocol. He pushed off the desk with a glance at the door— _barely_ ajar—and walked up to his secretary and pulled him into a very indecorous kiss.

“I have something for you,” he whispered, his hand venturing under the jerkin to stroke the firm, muscular ass. “In there.”

Tilrey followed without a word, and Gersha closed the inner door and sat himself down in his own desk chair. “Satisfied?” he asked, reaching into a drawer for the item he’d ordered from Supply earlier. “We’re properly situated now, me sitting and you standing, ready to execute my orders.”

Tilrey shook his head affectionately. “Now that no one can _see_ us, Fir, yes, we’re very proper. What—”

He went abruptly silent as Gersha handed him the wafer-thin, jet-black handheld, about the size of a palm. “What’s this, love?”

A hot blush rose to Gersha’s face as he took in the sheer incredulity on Tilrey’s. “What does it look like?” he asked. “Go on, open and initialize it. I keyed it to your right index print; it’s yours.”

“But . . .” Tilrey continued to stare at the handheld as if it might bite him. “I’m not supposed to have that.”

Gersha hastened to explain: “That device will only allow you to message back and forth with me. It’s what Upstart parents give their children. So, no, it’s not a full portal. But now that you have it, you have no excuse for pushing cryptic notes under the door instead of checking your brilliant stratagems with me before you execute them.”

He flushed again, half-expecting Tilrey to be angry. But Tilrey only woke the handheld and pressed his index finger to the screen, still moving as tentatively as if the device might sprout wings and fly away.

“So you’ve given me an instrument of power to . . . control me,” he said, gazing raptly at the screen.

“I—well, yes.” What was the use of denying it? “But you know, there’s nothing unusual about it,” Gersha hastened to add. “Besha’s secretary has a closed-loop handheld, and I’m pretty sure several other Councillors’ do, too. It’s not _technically_ allowed, but it makes you easier to reach, you see. For efficiency.”

“Ah, right, efficiency.” There was an odd half-smile on Tilrey’s face. “Check your messages, Fir.”

Gersha scrambled for his handheld, where he read, _I would like to go down on my knees for you now, in a very proper way._

He gulped in a breath. “I don’t need you to—I mean, if you’re trying to thank me, I don’t want that. This isn’t some kind of favor.”

Tilrey came around the desk and swung Gersha’s swivel chair to face him. “Right, and I don’t sell myself for favors anymore, remember, Fir? Except when there’s a very important vote that could affect innocent people on the line. But this? This is something I want to do.”

He sank to his knees, reached under Gersha’s tunic, and palmed his cock, grinning as Gersha gasped with the sudden shock of pleasure. “And from now on, of course, when there is such an exceptional situation, I’ll be able to contact you and gain your prior approval—or not, as the case may be.”

Gersha writhed, the hectic flush all over him now, as Tilrey unfastened his trousers.

“Indeed,” he managed to say, trying to keep up with whichever game they were playing now, “it’s very important to observe protocol.” He opened his knees and was rewarded with a firm squeeze that made his vision haze over.

For a long time, Gersha had worried that Tilrey didn’t actually enjoy sucking cock, or enjoyed it only because it turned Gersha into a helpless, pleading mess. But by now he was pretty sure Tilrey’s pleasure went deeper than that. He enjoyed making Gersha come undone, yes, but he also enjoyed the whole performance of submission, even as they both knew it wasn’t real. Or _because_ they did.

Gersha tensed as a warm tongue circled the head of his cock. The first contact was so devilishly light and teasing, after the firm hand, that it made his whole spine come alive with itching, needy pleasure. He murmured, “No matter how many times you do that, it always gets me.”

Tilrey backed off again. “I wouldn’t want to observe anything but proper submission, Fir, when you’ve put such enormous trust in me.”

“Of course not. Only the properest. But . . .” He desperately needed that tongue to return to exploring him, needed to burrow himself deep in that supple throat, but he couldn’t let last night go, not yet. “What I said about being angry—I don’t want you to hide it from me, Tilrey. Even when you think it’s wrong or you shouldn’t feel it, I want you to tell me.”

The boy made a small sound in his throat, half frustrated and half amused. “It’s not as simple as you make it sound. I don’t want to—well, to hurt you, love.”

“You can never hurt me.” Though he knew that wasn’t strictly true, Gersha hoped Tilrey would believe it. “I want the real you, even when he hates my guts and vice versa. I can’t have a censored version. Okay?”

“Okay, Fir.” A small pause. “I’ll try. Now, can we get back to proper Sector business?”

Gersha gasped again, hoarsely, as his whole organ slid into Tilrey’s hot throat. “Oh verdant hells, please don’t stop doing that. Never, ever stop.”

He threaded his fingers in Tilrey’s hair and threw his head back, only half-seeing the dour white ceiling. Maybe the staid décor of the Sector disapproved of their pairing, but that was just too bad.

“Sorry about the carpet,” Gersha added when he was able to string words together. “I’ll . . . order a softer one at the first opportunity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I expect to post "Return of the Threesome" (not its actual name) next week. Updates also [on Tumblr](https://welcome-to-oslov.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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